The Lair of the White Worm/Chapter 9
AT BREAKFAST Sir Nathaniel noticed that Adam was put out about something. But he said nothing. The lesson of silence is better remembered in age than in youth. When they were both in the study, where Sir Nathaniel followed him, Adam at once began to tell his companion of what had happened. Sir Nathaniel looked graver and graver as the narration proceeded, and when Adam had stopped he remained silent for several minutes. At last he said: “This is very grave. I have not formed my thought yet; but it seems to me at first impression that this is worse than anything we had thought of.” “Why, sir?” said Adam. “Is the killing of a mongoose—no matter by whom—so serious a thing as all that?” The other smoked on quietly for quite another few minutes before he spoke. “When I have properly thought it over, I may moderate my opinion. But in the meantime it seems to me that there is something dreadful behind all this—something that may affect all our lives—that may mean the issue of life or death to any of us.” Adam sat up quickly. “Do tell me, sir, what is in your mind—if, of course, you have no objection, or do not think it better not.” “I have no objection, Adam. In fact, if I had, I should have to overcome it. I fear there can be no more hidden or reserved thoughts between us.” “Indeed, sir, that sounds serious, worse than serious!” Again they both resumed their cigars, and presently Sir Nathaniel said gravely: “Adam, I greatly fear the time has come for us—for you and me, at all events—to speak out plainly to one another. Does not there seem something very mysterious about this?” “I have thought so, sir, all along. The only difficulty one has is what one is to think and where to begin.” “Let us begin with what you have told me. First take the conduct of the mongoose.” Adam waited; the other went on: “He was quiet, even friendly and affectionate with you. He only attacked the snakes, which is, after all, only his business in life.” “That is so!” “Then we must try to find out or imagine some reason why he attacked Lady Arabella.” “I fear we shall have to imagine; there is no logical answer to that question.” “Then let us imagine. He had not shown any disposition hitherto to attack strangers?” “No; the opposite. He made friends at once with everyone he came across.” “Then even if his action is based on instinct, why does he single out one person in such a way?” “In that, sir, I see a difficulty, or, if you will permit me, it may be only a flaw in your reasoning.” “Permit! I shall be glad. Go on.” “It seems to me that you take ‘instinct’ as a definite fixed thing concerning where there can be only one reading—even by the brute creation.” “Go on, Adam. This is very interesting.” “We both may have erred in our idea of ‘instinct’. May it not be that a mongoose may have merely the instinct to attack, that nature does not allow or provide him with the fine reasoning powers to discriminate who he is to attack?” “Good! Of course that may be so. But then, on the other hand, should we not satisfy ourselves why he does wish to attack anything? If for centuries in all parts of the world this particular animal is known to attack only one kind of other animal, are we not justified in assuming that when a case strange to us comes before us, if one of the first class attacks a hitherto unclassed animal, he recognises in that animal some quality which it has in common with the hitherto classed animal?” “That is a good argument, sir,” Adam went on, “but a dangerous one. If we followed it out with pure logic it would lead us to believe that Lady Arabella is a snake. And I doubt if we—either of us—are prepared to go so far.” “So far as I am concerned, I am to follow blindly the lead of logic. But before doing so we have a duty to fulfill.” “What is that duty, sir?” “The first of all duties, truth. We must be sure before going to such an end that there is no point as yet unconsidered which would account for the unknown thing which puzzles us.” “As how?” “Well, suppose the instinct works on some physical basis—sight, for instance, or smell. If there were anything in recent juxtaposition to the accused which would look like the cause or would carry the scent, surely that would supply the missing cause.” “Of course!” Adam spoke with conviction. Sir Nathaniel went on: “Now, from what you tell me, your friend Oolanga had just come from the direction of Diana’s Grove carrying the dead snakes, which the mongoose had killed the previous morning. Might not the scent have been carried that way?” “Of course it might, probably was. I never thought of that. Look here, sir, I really think it will be prudent of us not to draw final conclusions till we know more. At any rate that episode has a suggestive hint for us—one which we can follow up without saying anything to anybody. Then we shall be in a safer position for going on.” “Good and sensible!” Sir Nathaniel spoke approvingly; and so it was tacitly arranged between the two to wait. But whilst they were sitting in silence an idea struck Adam, and he thought it wise to make it known to the elder man. “Two things I want to ask you, if I may. One is a sort of corollary to the other.” Sir Nathaniel listened. He went on: “Is there any possible way of even guessing approximately how long a scent will remain? You see this is a natural scent, and may derive from a place where it has been effective for thousands of years. Then, does a scent of any kind carry with it any form or quality of another kind, either good or evil? I ask you because one ancient name of the house lived in by the lady who was attacked by the mongoose was ‘The Lair of the White Worm’. If any of these things be so, our possibilities of knowledge and our difficulties have multiplied indefinitely. They may even change in kind. We may get into even moral entanglements; before we know it we may be even in the midst of a bedrock struggle between good and evil.” Sir Nathaniel, after a pause, asked: “Is that the question you wished to ask me?” “Yes, sir.” Sir Nathaniel smiled gravely. “I don’t see on what the corollary rests. With regard to the first question—or the first part, though, so far as I know, there are no fixed periods with which a scent may be active—I think we may take it that that period does not run into thousands of years. As to whether any moral change accompanies a physical one, I can only say that I have met no argument of proof or even no assertion of the fact. At the same time, we must remember that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are terms so wide as to take in the whole scheme of creation and all that is implied by them and by their mutual action and reaction. Generally, I would say that in the scheme of a First Cause anything is possible. So long as the inherent forces or tendencies of any one thing are veiled from us we must expect mystery. This hides from us more than we at first conceive, and as time goes on and some light gets into the darker places, we are able to understand that there are other darknesses. And so on, until the time shall come when the full light of understanding beats upon us.” “Then I presume, sir,” said Adam, “that it would be at least wise of us to leave these questions alone till we know more.” “Most certainly. To listen and remember should be our guiding principle in such an inquiry.” “There is one other question on which I should like to ask your opinion. It is the last of my general questions—for the present. Suppose that there are any permanent forces appertaining to the past, what we may call ‘survivals’, do these belong to good as well as to evil? For instance, if the scent of the primaeval monster can so remain in proportion to the original strength, can the same be true of things of good import?” Sir Nathaniel thought a while, then he answered: “We must be careful from the beginning not to confuse the physical and the moral, to differentiate the two and to keep them differentiated. I can see that already you have switched on the moral entirely, so perhaps we had better follow it up first. On the side of the moral we have certain justification for belief in the utterances of revealed religion. For instance, ‘the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much’ is altogether for good. We have nothing of a similar kind on the side of evil. But if we accept this dictum we need have no more fear of ‘mysteries’: these become thenceforth merely obstacles.” Adam waited in silence, which was intended to be, and was, respectful. Then he suddenly changed to another phase of the subject. “And now, sir, may I turn for a few minutes to purely practical things, or rather to matters of historical fact?” Sir Nathaniel bowed acquiescence. He went on: “We have already spoken of the history, so far as it is known, of some of the places round us—‘Castra Regis’, ‘Diana’s Grove’, and ‘The Lair of the White Worm’. I would like to ask if there is anything not necessarily of evil import about any of the places?” “Which?” asked Sir Nathaniel shrewdly. “Well, for instance, this house and Mercy Farm?” “Here we turn,” said Sir Nathaniel, “to the other side, the light side of things. Let us take Mercy Farm first. You have no objections?” “Thank you, sir.” The young man’s comment was complete and illuminative. “Perhaps we had better remember the history of that particular place. The details may later on help us in coming to some useful, or at all events interesting, conclusion. “When Augustine was sent by Pope Gregory to Christianise England in the time of the Romans, he was received and protected by Ethelbert, King of Kent, whose wife, daughter of Charibert, King of Paris, was a Christian, and did much for Augustine. She founded a nunnery in memory of Columba, which was named Sedes misericordiæ, the House of Mercy, and, as the region was Mercian, the two names became inextricably involved. As Columba is the Latin for dove, the dove became a sort of signification of the nunnery. She seized on the idea and made the newly-founded nunnery a house of doves. Someone sent her a freshly discovered dove, a sort of carrier, but which had in the white feathers of its head and neck the form of a religious cowl. And so in especial the bird became the symbol of the nuns of Mercy. The nunnery flourished for more than a century, when, in the time of Penda, who was the reactionary of heathendom, it fell into decay. In the meantime the doves, which, protected by religious feeling, had increased mightily, were known in all Catholic communities. When King Offa ruled in Mercia about a hundred and fifty years later, he restored Christianity, and under its protection the nunnery of St. Columba was restored and its doves flourished again. In process of time this religious house again fell into desuetude; but before it disappeared it had achieved a great name for good works, and in especial for the piety of its members. I think I see now where our argument leads. I do not know if you started it, having thought it out to the full. But in any case I will venture an opinion; that if deeds and prayers and hopes and earnest thinking leave anywhere any moral effect, Mercy Farm and all around it have almost the right to be considered holy ground.” “Thank you, sir,” said Adam earnestly, and was silent. Sir Nathaniel understood.